Echoes of the Blessed – FG Okeke

Cover Image – Faith Nsi

Ama’s spirits grew lighter with each step as she made her way to the art gallery’s backroom. She prided herself in being one of the painfully few who looked forward to Mondays in a city where work days were dreaded. Lagos made mere day-to-day living a difficult chore and working a living hell – with body-numbing heavy traffic, irritable agberos, and generally angry and frustrated people everywhere. It felt like one endless and terrifying masquerade dance where anger was the only permitted mask. If you weren’t angry enough, you get trampled to death by those with larger masks.

Yet, while many would give anything to escape the daily travails of going to and from work, Ama looked forward to work. She even depended on it. Having little friends and even more sparse social activities, weekends always seemed long and dreary, with short bright sparks from the periods she had to research a new artifact or read a piece of art history.

All that changes the moment she steps through the doors of Asiri Art Gallery. The sight and smell of endless arrays of art beams a refreshing light into the dark recesses of her soul. No matter how bleak life had seemed before then or the insults she may have traded in traffic that morning, Ama steps into a new world the moment she crosses the gallery doors. A lopsided grin breaks out on her face as she gives a friendly wave to as many visitors as she can on her way to the backroom. 

To some, the backroom is a dust-laden storage while others consider it as a cluttered workplace. But to Ama, the backroom is much more than that. It is where ideas are formed, materials are transformed, and the seeds of the artistic process thrives.

It was her sacred sanctuary.

She walked into the dimly lit backroom. The room was filled with the scent of polished wood and dust, and shelves lined up with carefully wrapped artifacts. She opened the windows and pressed the play button on a radio by the window. The hum of the distant traffic streamed in from the window, mingling with the murmur of jazz from the radio. 

Ama let out a sigh of contentment at the tranquility that filled her soul. She eagerly removed her jacket, hung it on a hook on the wall, and pulled on a pair of cotton gloves. She was excited and couldn’t wait to lay her hands on the latest collection from one of their most recent private collectors. Ama made her way towards a wooden crate in a corner marked by the insignias of the collector.

As she got closer, the room suddenly got chilly. She turned, expecting a gust of wind from the window but the window blinds barely moved. The air conditioner was also off as she prefers working without them. She turned towards the wooden crate again, a slight sense of foreboding rising in her chest. 

Ama pulled the crate towards the worktable at the center of the room, the overhead LED lights falling on wood darkened by use and travel, with its earthy scents hinting at faraway places. She hefted it onto the table and sat down. Curiously but respectfully, she opened the crate and began to carefully unwrap layers of cloth to reveal some of the most beautiful masks she’d ever seen. Each mask bore intricate carvings, with eyes hollowed out and symbols she recognized to be nsibidi etched into the wood, both evoking beauty and intensifying the strange sense of foreboding she felt. 

Ama set aside each mask with a reverence bordering on worship as she wondered their origins and the countless stories they must hold. She lifted the final cloth and her eyes met a mask with a face distinctively different from others. It was an angular piece of work with emphatic features – a thin nose, high cheekbones, and deep, large sockets that seemed to suck in the dim light. The wooden material was darkened with age, with faint hints of red pigment around its edges. Ama felt an inexplicable pull towards the mask, her fingers hovering inches above its carved mouth. The craftsmanship was otherworldly, making the mask seem alive and aware with a penetrating gaze that suggested its knowledge of her darkest secrets. 

A chill ran down her spine.

She resisted the urge to pick the mask and turn it over for fear of finding a face behind it. A face that stared into her very soul and saw the gloom and horror there. A face that sees it all. That can see what had happened to him. A face that –

Ama blinked. She shook her head and chuckled. Her imagination was really getting the better of her. And the trick of the dim light wasn’t helping either. She flipped on the fluorescent bulbs and harsh bright lights filled the room, exposing the lifeless artifact for what it was – a simple mask. Though the sense of foreboding remained, faint but still there.

Ama gently reached out to lift the mask from its padding. The moment her fingers brushed the wood, her stomach gave a sudden lurch as she slipped into a cold empty space. It was as if she stepped off a cliff and was falling to her death several feet below. Panic gripped her. Guttural grunts and wailings accompanied her silent screams as she flailed, falling through the bottomless chill until everything went black.

**** *****

Ama stirred, her mind laboring to gain consciousness. It felt like she was under a mound of sand and someone was trying to drag her to the surface. Gradually, her mind cleared and she woke to find herself slumped against the worktable. Her vision was hazy and she was drenched with cold sweat. She looked at the digital clock on the wall and saw that two hours had passed.

Two hours?

What on earth had happened? 

She glanced at her hands and gasped at the faint markings smeared across her palms, like she’d been holding on to something far too tightly. She recognized a few of them as Nsibidi symbols while the rest didn’t make any sense. As she frantically brushed off the markings, the sense of foreboding returned. Heavier and higher in her chest. The room got colder and she felt like a part of herself was lost to the darkness she just experienced.

Or maybe she was just overthinking this.

She’d had little sleep in recent times and probably needed a good rest. 

Ama steeled herself, hesitated and reached out to begin packing the masks back inside the crate. She slowly touched the mask.

Nothing happened.

Emboldened, she pushed the strange episode to the back of her mind as she slowly wrapped up the masks and arranged them. Yet, the feeling of the mask’s eyes on her—of it watching her, waiting for her—lingered, imprinting a shadow of dread that seemed to follow her long after she was done packing and left the backroom.

**** *****

Ama loved art history and the stories they told. Every time she looked at a piece of pottery or painting, she felt like a goddess staring down and watching those ancient humans live their puny but fascinating lives in the world as they knew it. It was almost inconceivable to imagine life different from what she currently experiences – without cars, mobile phones, or airplanes. Yet, it was always thrilling to discover links to what those lives were like.

The only thing she loved more was Arinze, her twin brother. Having shared the same womb, it seemed they were destined to share their lives.

And that they did. 

They wore the same clothes as kids, learned in the same classrooms, and always shared a room, even after Ama was well into womanhood.

But the strongest bond that held them was their mutual love for art. Especially art that told the African story.

From the moment they entered a secondary school history class and discovered that the people of Igbo Ukwu had been making bronze castings with intricate designs a thousand years before Picasso ever picked up a brush.

And that Nok terracotta sculptures existed hundreds of years before the Greek knew enough to put together a human face in any artistic form; this discovery drew them into an entirely different world. A world where their bond grew as their knowledge of African art history expanded.

But that knowledge will also be the source of the greatest darkness and sorrow Ama had ever known.

It all began when they discovered Ndi Ekpe.

It was a supposedly extinct cult group amongst the Efik and Igbos who could read and communicate with the ancient Nsibidi signs and had the power to shapeshift, turning into leopards at night to attend their meetings. Hence, the word Ekpe, which was Efik for leopard. From their research and stories from their grandmother, most of the deeds and activities associated with the group bordered on myths and folklore. Despite what was true and what was not, Ama and Arinze knew that such a group must have been powerful and influential in its immediate society as guardians of deep secrets and knowledge; much like the acclaimed freemasons in the western world. So, they met any new trace or knowledge about their existence or artifacts related to them with the kind of feverish enthusiasm a drunkard meets palm wine. That was how they picked interest in Nsibidi and started learning how to decipher the archaic signs.

One day, Ama discovered a private exhibit featuring rare Nsibidi artifacts in Lekki, Lagos Island. She was already working as an Art Curator at Asiri Art Gallery while Arinze was an Art Restorer at the National Museum. The information regarding the exhibit was not public and was meant for a select individuals with significant influence in the art world. But somehow, Ama discovered the invite while waiting for the owner of Asiri, Mrs Onyeka in her office.

Besides herself with excitement, she didn’t need to do much to convince Arinze. However, he was a bit skeptical.

“But Amy, they didn’t invite us oo,” His brows wrinkled in concern. “It’s strictly by invitation”.

“Don’t worry,” Ama winked at him. “I can get us in”.

The exhibit was held in a large building at one of the most luxurious hotels in Lekki and they met security guards whose arms were as thick as her laps.

“Password,” one of them growled when they’d stated their purpose.

“Agwu,” Ama muttered.

The guards stared at them for a while before allowing them to pass.

“How did you know the password?” Arinze asked in hushed excited tones. 

“It was in the invite,” Ama smiled at him. “The flyer explained that the password is the Igbo patron deity of health and divination; it wasn’t hard to figure that out”.

By then, their attention was drawn to the artifacts on display. Room after room had walls and cases filled with several artworks marked with Nsibidi writings. They’d never seen so many Nsibidi-related artifacts in one place. They wondered at the combined cost of all they saw.

There was an intricately carved mask in the shape of a leopard’s face, painted in deep ochre, black, and gold. It was supposedly worn by members of Ndi Ekpe during initiation ceremonies, symbolizing both power and the ability to see into realms beyond the physical.

In another room sat a large, ancient drum made from dark wood and stretched animal hide. Its surface was worn, with small Nsibidi symbols carved around the edges. The description hinted that the drum was used to summon spirits and signal secret meetings of Ndi Ekpe members, with sounds that could open pathways between the human and spiritual worlds.

Filled with awe, Ama and Arinze felt lost in an ancient world as they interacted with several other intriguing artifacts – wooden staffs with carved chameleon handles, old brass mirrors, and dual sided masks with leopard and human faces.

Eventually, they got to a closed room with an EXCLUSIVE SECTION – DO NOT ENTER sign written boldly above it.

“Who knows what’s behind that door,” Ama muttered excitedly.

“It’s obviously out of bounds,” Arinze said. “Let’s go biko”.

“Just imagine the quality of art we’ve seen so far,” Ama grabbed his arm. “And then imagine what will be behind exclusive sections like this. We have to see it!”

After further half-hearted protests, Arinze obliged and they went through the door only to find that it was a long hallway rather than a room, with a plain white door at the end. 

The twins hesitated for a bit, as if to be sure they wanted to go ahead and then proceeded towards the door. As they got closer, they heard a soft hum that ran along the length of the hallway walls. 

Standing before the door, they realised that it shook with eerie vibrations emanating from inside the room and translated to the steady hum in the hallway. The door was without a keyhole but had a knob of dark hardwood carved into the shape of a leopard head that seemed to snarl at them with disapproval.

They hesitated.

“Are you sure about this?” Arinze asked. “I don’t understand the noise from this room”

“It’s probably just a more private display and someone is playing an ancient instrument”, Ama assured him as she tested the doorknob and found that it was open. “We’ll just sneak in and out in a minute”.

They stepped into a dimly lit room. The temperature suddenly increased as the air thickened, giving a suffocating feeling. The vibrations became clearer – several deep guttural voices chanting together and accompanied by intermittent drum beats. But they couldn’t see anyone as they hesitantly continued into the room. A full view was obstructed by a wall to their right. An unseen flickering light source illuminated walls with glowing, continuously shifting Nsibidi symbols – as if dancing to the rhythm of the drums. Ama and Arinze stepped fully into the room and turned to the right – towards the direction of the sound and light, finding that it led into a much bigger space – as large as a small basketball court. Several robed and masked figures were in a very large circle with a big fire in the center.

Arinze tugged at Ama’s hand “How come there’s no smoke from the fi-”

“Sshhhhh!” Ama placed a finger on her lips. “They shouldn’t hear us,” she whispered excitedly. “I think we may have found Ndi Ekpe”.

As they inched closer unnoticed, they realized that the fire was artificial – a long line of roaring yellow flame from a black box devoid of smoke. Some other smell permeated the room – a strong, heady, and slightly pleasant odor. 

The chants from the figures grew louder as they swayed slowly in horizontal rocking movements. The flickering light made it difficult to ascertain the color of their robes but it was either white or cream. The drumbeats continued but they couldn’t see its source.

Ama and Arinze continued until they came to the demarcation between where they were and the other large room with the robed and masked figures. They could count up to twenty of them in the circle.

They watched as the drums and chants suddenly stopped, leaving an eerie and chilling silence. One of the masked figures stepped forward from the circle to stand in front of the fire. After a few gesticulations, the figure beckoned to one of the others still standing in a circle, who came forward, knelt, and removed the mask to reveal a feminine face framed by a flowing wig.

Ama gasped. ‘I think we’re about to witness an initiation,’ she brought out her phone.

“It’s interesting that they accept women,” Arinze muttered.

“What!” Ama retorted.

“Don’t shout, they’ll hear us” Arinze whispered urgently. “I didn’t just see Ndi Ekpe as a society that would accept women”.

“We’ve had this argument countless times,” Ama said. “A cult of this sophistication and influence can’t have existed without women being involved. There’s a kind of finesse to the accounts of their operations that can only be a result of female influence”.

Arinze grunted. “Ooo. I’ve heard you”. 

By now, the cultists had linked their hands together and started another guttural but lower chant as the kneeling woman repeated something after the masked figure before the fire. 

“These people might not even be the real Ndi Ekpe,” Ama said as she moved a bit closer to get a better shot with her phone camera, crossing the demarcation into the space where the cultists were gathered. “It could just be a performance for an elite few that paid good money”.

“True,” Arinze muttered as he cautiously followed her. “But where are the people watching?”.

“They might be on the other side of the room through another entrance,” Ama replied. “Just like a stage and the door we came through is the back entrance”.

The volume of the chant suddenly increased as the woman was given a bowl to drink from. The drumbeats rejoined the chants and the air inside the room seemed to thicken even further, as the strong heady smell increased.

“I still can’t get a very clear shot,” Ama complained.

“You refused to get an iPhone nau,” Arinze responded as he noticed a curve in the section of the floor before them lit up with a strange red glow that continued in a large circle around the cultists.

The drumbeats got louder and faster. The chants got louder and eerier.

Goosebumps crawled through Arinze’s skin. “Ama, wait”.

“Hmm?” Ama absent-mindedly fiddled with her phone as she drew very close to the glowing circle.

“Wait, Ama,” Arinze said again, grabbing her arm.

“What nau?” Ama shrugged him off and made to cross the curved line.

“Wait!” Arinze tried to drag her back. A brief struggle ensued – Arinze lost his balance and accidentally put a foot across the line.

Arinze’s arm on Ama’s shoulder suddenly seized in a stronger grip. “Ama,” he whispered, his eyes dilating.

“What is it?” Ama asked.

His grip slackened as he collapsed against her. 

“What is it, Arinze! What is it!”  Ama shouted as both of them fell to the ground under his weight, her phone slipping from her hand to the floor.

“Arinze!” Ama shook him and put her ear on his chest. His breathing was faint and slow. Ama gave him another violent shove in a fit of panic. “Arinze!”

By this time, the chanting and the drumbeats had stopped.

Ama looked behind her, hoping to ask for help but was dismayed to find that the room was completely empty, with the flickering fire giving the room a haunted look. She put her ear on his chest again, realising that he’d stopped breathing.

“Help!” Ama cradled his head, with tears streaming down her face. “Somebody help!” 

Ama heard a pattering sound and turned to see someone in a uniform – a hotel staff – running towards her.

“Please help him,” Ama sniffed, standing up to give the man room to carry Arinze. More footsteps brought in three more hotel staff to help carry Arinze to the hospital.

By the time they got there, the doctor pronounced him dead on arrival, reporting the cause as a heart attack.

---

Ama stared into space, oblivious of the buzz around her. “I killed him,” she muttered.

It’s been just a year since Arinze died but the scenes from that day were deeply engraved in her mind. The incident with the mask in the art gallery backroom from the previous week, while remarkable, had done nothing to diminish the guilt that always tore at her heart and the hollow feeling that haunted her when she wasn’t working.

“I killed him,” she whispered again.

Her mind replayed every time Arinze had objected to them going for the exhibition or entering that restricted section, tormenting her with the knowledge that if she’d just listened in any of those cases, he would still be alive. Although the doctors had confirmed that he died from a heart attack and the ritual they’d seen was obviously a staged performance, she couldn’t help but believe that if they hadn’t gone there, her Arinze wouldn’t have died. Prior to then, he had no history or symptoms to indicate a poor heart condition. They’d always gone for medical checkups, ate well, and exercised regularly. Even the doctors agreed that the heart attack was sudden and mysterious.

“I killed him,” Ama brushed a thin line of tears across her face.

She was taking a lunch break at a cafeteria across from Asiri art gallery but hadn’t eaten a grain from the plate of rice and coleslaw before her. Her mind drifted to the mask and the blackout after touching it. She’d told herself she was probably just tired afterwards, but in just a week following that, she’d blacked out on fourteen different occasions. At first, they were brief – just moments where time seemed to slip. Then they stretched longer. She would wake up in another place several hours after with no memory of how she got there. 

She probably needed to take better care of her health. Since Arinze’s death, she barely ate, stopped exercising, slept very little, and hadn’t gone for a medical checkup. The blackouts were probably signs of poor health and it was just a coincidence that they started the same time she touched the mask. 

But that didn’t explain some other things, like how she started knowing things about people that she had no business knowing. Sitting in a cab ride home one day after work, she found herself casually stating details of the driver’s life, down to specific names and challenges. The man broke down in tears when she asked him if his wife had been diagnosed with cancer. Ama held her breath, hoping that he wouldn’t run into another car as she listened to him sob and say that his wife had just three weeks to live. 

Moved, Ama had simply declared that she would be fine. She woke up one Saturday morning to twenty missed calls and when she returned the call to the strange number, a loud voice kept shouting incoherently.

“She’s healed! She’s healed! The cancer is gone! It’s me, the Bolt driver! It’s Samuel! Hello! Hello!”

Ama had ended the call and refused to pick his further incessant calls. It was as if the world was going mad. Arinze dies of a strange heart attack. And now a lady she doesn’t know gets mysteriously healed of cancer. Two opposing occurrences somehow connected to her.

“I killed him,” she sniffed.

“Hey”.

Ama flinched, startled to realise that a man had sat down opposite her. He looked middle aged, of medium height, and had a complexion that reminded her of coffee. The man looked around the cafeteria with an air of confidence and mystery before turning penetrating dark brown eyes on her.

“Hello,” Ama hastily brushed away any lingering tears. “How can I help you?”

“I have been sent to help you,” the man responded.

“What do you mean?” Ama asked warily.

“The guilt, the blackouts, the mask, the strange experiences,” the man fixed an intense but not unkind gaze on her. “I have been sent to help you”

A chill washed down Ama’s spine. “Who are you?”

“I am the Onye Ozi or Onye Ogene”.

“You’re a town crier?” Ama stared.

The man winced. “Eeehm. No. Not in the real sense of the word. I mean – ” He faltered. “That’s what it means but that’s not what I am. I mean who still uses town criers?”.

An awkward silence followed. While Ama was still shaken up by how much the strange man knew about her, she couldn’t help smiling at how suddenly self-conscious he became.

“Who are you?” Ama asked again.

The man’s face regained its confidence and raptor gaze. “I’ve already told you. But in simpler terms, I am a messenger and I have come to help you.” He paused. “To answer your questions and officially bring you The Summon of Ndi Ekpe”.

Ama blinked in disbelief. “You guys are real? What – what we saw at the hotel was real?”

The man nodded slowly.

Ama suddenly grabbed the man’s hand in a firm grip. “What happened to Arinze? What happened?”

The man sighed deeply. “The exhibit had been a front for an actual meeting but we didn’t expect the intrusion of the Unblessed, considering how deeply we hid in the hotel. The area was even marked as an Exclusive Section as a precaution.”

“The Unblessed?”

“Yes. Humans without Chukwu’s blessing to join Ndi Ekpe”.

“So, Arinze died because you folks didn’t want anyone to stumble upon your stupid little meeting!” Ama flared, releasing his hand.

The man winced again. “No. Not exactly.” He sighed resignedly. “Ndi Ekpe is a powerful secret cult that has existed for thousands of years and is charged with custody of powerful secrets, ranging from cutting edge technologies to precise prophecies of the future. In addition, we’ve been blessed by Chukwu to resist forces of evil at the highest level and enforce supernatural justice, ensuring that the world is not overrun by darkness”.

He took a drink from a bottle of water he brought with him. “Naturally, there are attempts to infiltrate the society at all times, whether directly by evil forces or through ignorant but controlled Unblessed. Because of this, a spiritual boundary is usually placed around the meeting areas that harms whatever forces that may want to gain unpermitted entry.

Crossing this boundary can be extremely harmful to the Unblessed and because no Unblessed has gotten into our meetings for over a thousand years, most had forgotten that it can be as bad as death. I believe he somehow stepped over the boundary during your adventures”.

It all became very clear as Ama remembered Arinze asking her to wait. He must have seen the boundary.

“So, Arinze died for nothing. Because of your carelessness,” Ama sneered.

“Arinze’s death was a regrettable accident,” The man said carefully. “One that has not happened in a thousand years. Changes have already been made on the boundary to ensure that it may still harm but not kill the Unblessed. Revealing myself to tender a personal apology from Ndi Ekpe is our own effort at making amends”.

The man reached out and brushed Ama’s hand and she immediately felt a huge boulder roll off her chest. The guilt didn’t disappear but she felt considerably lighter and better than she had ever been when she’s not in the art gallery.

She took a deep breath, staring down at her hands. “Arinze would give anything to know that Ndi Ekpe actually exists,” she whispered softly.

“Then there is The Summon,” the man said.

“What summon?”

“The blackouts, the headaches, the strange occurrences, and most importantly the mask that was sent to you. You have the Blessing, Ama”. The man explained.

“What blessing?” Ama stared at him.

The man sighed patiently. “Remember what I said about the Unblessed? Humans who do not have the gift to be part of Ndi Ekpe. There are humans who do have that gift. They’re the Blessed. But they are exceedingly rare. So rare that we haven’t had one in a hundred years. Until now. Until you, Ama. You are Blessed.”

A deafening silence followed.

“Eeeh?” was all Ama could manage.

“You’ve been summoned,” The man continued. “The mask you got was the first step. I’m just making it formal. Ndi Ekpe is inviting you to join its ranks”.

“And if I refuse?” Ama asked.

“The Blessing alters you dramatically, with one of the more immediate effects being the manifestation of certain gifts and abilities accompanied by the symptoms you’d witnessed. A longer-term result is an unusually long life if you survive the change. That change can be difficult to manage for a human body unless you’re initiated and trained. At the very best, you would be constantly depressed, have poor health, or simply lose your mind. At worst, you could die.”

Ama was surprised at the only question that crossed her mind to ask. “So, I can turn into a leopard?”

The man chuckled a bit. “Not at first. Maybe after you’ve advanced a bit. After a few decades”.

Ama bowed her head, trying to process it all.

“I know it might be a lot to take in,” the man was saying. “So, I’ll give you the time you need and be back on the next Eke market day”

It took a while to register in Ama’s head. “Wait. when is the next Eke mark- ”.

She looked up, only to realise that the man was gone.

---

It was a few minutes to midnight.

Ama is squatting on top of the NECOM House – the tallest building in both Lagos Island and Nigeria, with an angular mask dangling from her right hand; the same mask that had started it all.

It’s been fifteen years since she joined the Ndi Ekpe but the memories were still as fresh as ever –  the exhibit, Arinze’s death, the mask, the messenger, and the initiation. 

Yes, the initiation. She accepted The Summon because that was the only way she could truly live now. She’d thought that art was to be her escape from the guilt and pain from losing Arinze until she was summoned by Ndi Ekpe. Then she realised that dedicating her life to the secrets of a society that she and Arinze had spent most of their lives researching would be the perfect way to honour his memory. Of course, she could have easily refused and hoped that the headaches would kill her; so that she could join Arinze. 

But no. Arinze wouldn’t want that. Rather, he would want her to explore this adventure – one that they could never have imagined in their wildest dreams –  to the fullest. For him. For both of them.

And what an adventure it has been. 

The initiation had seen her experience things she’d never thought was ever possible. The angular mask from the gallery had appeared out of the thin air at the ceremony. On putting it on, reality cracked, leaving her in a space in between worlds where she met with a small boy with Nsibidi tattooed all over his body.

After telling her some of the secrets of the Ndi Ekpe and how bestowed powers can never be used for selfish gain, vengeance, and cruelty, the small boy stood before her with a pair of piercing green eyes. “Grief has made you hollow, but purpose will make you whole. Do you accept this path?”

Ama took a deep breath. “Yes”. He extended a hand. She took it. She woke back in the initiation chamber, her body trembling. The others bowed their heads. She was now one of them.

Now, years later, somewhere in the city, a corrupt lawmaker was preparing to silence a journalist who had uncovered his crimes. He had done this before, erasing those who threatened his power.

But this time, justice would come for him.

As the moon shone over the ever-bustling city of Lagos, Ama stood from her squat and placed the mask over her face. It fit snugly, simmered for a few seconds and disappeared.

Ama walked to the edge of the tall building, put a leg out and dropped into a fall.

Midway the fall, the slim feminine figure sprouted black wings, shifting into a huge black crow just before she hit the ground and then flew into the night with a loud caw. Ama was no longer just a grieving woman.

She was Ekpe. She had a new identity. And she had a purpose.

---